


a touch of winter

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Smut, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4087528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of these nights, her search for temporary relief will result in a massacre, she’s certain of it.</p>
<p>That doesn’t stop her from stepping into Vault D.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a touch of winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SafelyCapricious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SafelyCapricious/gifts).



> A little bit of smut for safelycapricious' half-birthday. Because I guess that's what we do?

Jemma is burning up. Not literally (yet), but it’s reached the point that even she can feel she’s overheated. Which is never a good sign. She tries to breathe in and out, to call on the training Lincoln’s attempting to impart to her.

She’s not an Inhuman - as no small number of people have made certain to tell her since the accident in the Arctic - but Lincoln can understand better than anyone her current situation. She’s beyond grateful that he’s taking the time to help her learn control. The exercises and meditation the Inhumans have been developing for centuries are valuable skills, and not ones they lightly pass on to outsiders.

Or so she’s told. She has yet to see any evidence that they’re helping her more than the simple passage of time is.

She huffs and climbs off the hard slab she calls a bed these days. (It took some getting used to, but it’s far less annoying than waking up on bent and melted springs.) The temperature gage next to the door tells her the system is attempting to keep things down to nearly freezing. Despite its efforts, she’s got the room’s temperature in the eighties and climbing.

She paces, wishing for that flame-retardant treadmill Fitz and Mack have been promising her. If she could just burn off (no pun intended) a little of this energy…

There is, of course, one sure-fire way to reduce her temperatures. She doesn’t like to think about it because, once she does, she invariably acts on it. (That’s a lie. She thinks about it often, almost constantly now. She’s nearly certain the transformation has driven her mad.) Sure enough, she’s headed out the door the next second.

Her feet know the way by now, leaving her mind to worry over the lack of a lock on her door. She’s well aware it can be locked from the outside - it’s a cage, for all the others’ attempts at making it a home - and is almost disappointed that Coulson hasn’t seen fit to seal her inside yet. He is determined that, like Skye, she is the same person she was before. But he must know about these late night excursions. The person she was before would hate her for them. Not to mention, she’s putting the entire base at risk. One of these nights, her search for temporary relief will result in a massacre, she’s certain of it.

That doesn’t stop her from stepping into Vault D.

It should probably worry her that while she can’t even be trusted with a real bed or standard treadmill, she never has trouble gaining enough control not to melt the tablet when she drops the barrier, but then everything about this should worry her a great deal more than it does. Especially that Ward is already up and headed for her the second the path is clear.

The relief she feels just from sharing the same air as him is enough that she might consider returning to her room, but then he touches her and all those half-formed thoughts go right out of her head.

His hands are freezing, leaving frost like bruises as he drags her to him. “What the hell took you so long?” he asks, his voice practically a growl before he’s pressing his mouth to hers, cooling her inside as well as out.

She never would’ve thought that cold could be, metaphorically speaking, _hot_ , but Ward was changed the same way she was. Or, to be more precise, the opposite way. These moments with him are the only times she can even feel the sensation of cold anymore.

He drags her back over the line marking the barrier, turning her around and all but tossing her onto the bed. She whimpers at the sudden increase in temperature, and he grins while he shucks off his clothes. That’s probably her fault for burning them off him last time in her haste. She quickly strips herself.

When she pulls her shirt, her last item of clothing, off over her head, she can’t help but wonder if he’s developed a new skill along with those powers of his. She feels frozen in place under his hungry stare. His eyes travel over her skin, like a touch along the marks she still bears from the last time they were together. There’s something like pride in his stare, like an artist drinking in their latest masterpiece.

She should hate him. For everything he’s done. For all the lives he’s taken and the lies he’s told. Simply for being the one person she can’t bear to be apart from. But having him look at her like this only makes her more hungry for him.

Later, she’ll have no idea who moved first or how she ended up pressed between him and the wall. She _will_ remember the way his incoming beard burns at her skin as he kisses a new mark onto her breast. (She didn’t come here to burn.) She grabs his chin in her hand, forcing his head up to face her. It’s controlling, possessive. It’s not at all something she would have done before. His eyes dance, no doubt seeing exactly what she’s feeling. She lets go of some of the fire still blazing inside her, burning away the stubble.

“Watch the hair,” he says, twisting his head away so he can get back to work on her breasts. She doesn’t know if he just forgot which one he was working on before or if he intends on keeping them symmetrical, and doesn’t much care.

She drags her nails up his back, leaving marks of her own, and he hisses in a icy breath that has her whimpering.

“Always so eager,” he chuckles. She might mind the slight mocking in his tone, if he didn’t follow it up by lifting her hips up onto his. Her legs wrap around his waist on instinct and she drops her head back, soothing the pain in her breasts by pressing them to his chest.

She’s still burning inside, a fire capable of turning an entire Arctic base into nothing but a burned out husk, but with Ward inside her, it doesn’t feel like something out of control she needs to keep a grip on.

Lincoln thinks she comes down here because her powers and Ward’s are in natural opposition, that she’s desperately trying to hold onto her life before and uses him because he provides an easy, if temporary, way of mastering herself. She doesn’t tell him that Ward makes her feel nothing of the sort. Feeling cold again is lovely, but when she’s with Ward, when she’s moving around him, holding him closer, bringing him deeper inside her, she doesn’t feel like her old self. She feels _powerful_.

And not just as herself, either. Fire and ice may be opposites, but Ward’s chill never quenches her flame. They’re stronger when they’re together.

Case in point, the concrete against her back is freezing and when she tips her head back, straining for release, she can see ice traveling up the wall. Unlike her, he never exudes power like this normally. It’s only when she’s here that it comes pouring out of him.

She means to blow a breath of flame upward, cutting off the ice before it can reach the ceiling, but he stops her with his fingers on her clit _just so_ and a final, firm push into her that drives her over the edge. She’s dimly aware of him finishing after her, dragging out her orgasm until it’s almost painful, and then allowing her to collapse over his shoulder so he can carry her to the bed.

Spent, she dozes, coming back to the feel of frost curling over her back. She smiles and steams it off. Ward’s knee bucks under her gently, slipping between her thighs. She’s not sure it’s an accident.

“I’ll freeze you if I have to,” he warns. She hums a non-response and moves her head into a more comfortable position against his chest. Now she can see the stairs, the fallen tablet, the line marking the downed barrier.

He never once makes a run for freedom when she visits. She curls her fingers around his hip, and pretends it doesn't bother her not to know why.

**Author's Note:**

> Semi-inspired by [this (totally sfw) post](http://ravenfitzsimmons.tumblr.com/post/120358155518/biospecialist-inhuman-au-upon-touching-the-diviner) on tumblr.


End file.
